The Cottage - Day 10
The dog reacts to the tractor first, running with blanket from bed to window. For the 3rd day in a row a vehicle is coming up our drive. It’s cold and wet outside so I wait until he reaches the house before I go out to greet him.
But he doesn’t slow down. Returning my wave he does a small circle and goes back down the driveway. I’m wondering if he’s doing some manoeuvering to get him ready for moving the sheep but I can see the top of the tractor over the trees and it carries on to the road where it zooms off to the east.
There is a large pool of water in the porch beside the art table. As I dry the table top itself on the space in between paintings where rain dripped and ran, I decide it is time to give up on painting in the porch for now and move the table into the kitchen. I’m hoping it’s only until the roof is repaired, but I can’t wait until whenever that may be.
A ship! Very big and way beyond the near islands, much farther than the ferry route. It’s moving fast.
The dog jumps out of bed again and leaps onto my lap. She is shivering. Inside the house, in American parlance, it is 59 degrees. In Irish parlance it is cold. If you’re a numbers freak then it is 15 degrees celsius. It isn’t that cold really, I used to be quite comfortable inside at 12 degrees, but the damp outside and the damp inside play tricks on the body.
Two red dots a mile away tell me jacketed walkers are on the bog road. Women. It is only women who walk. And always in twos or threes. Men drive cars or tractors after first aging indoors.
There is a pale blue sky over the sea beyond the islands. It runs the length of the horizon.
From the wind it appears to have a chance of coming here, or it may just slide by always 10 miles away. In case it doesn’t make it here I go outside to remind myself how cold it isn’t indoors, and for the first time in days I cut some wood.
To make room for my art table in the kitchen I move the dining table. As I pull the table out I see that the leaf that was folded down against the wall is covered in mold.
The first of the 2 boxes marked “US Cycle” has the transcripts of my journal. I track down the tape where I left off posting online. It is an odd thing to be reading one’s own journal of old while documenting that fact in a new journal. For a moment I try to recognise the me of 12 years earlier, but I haven’t got time and I need to eat something.
With the art table and paintings removed, the porch/sun room is now empty but for a dog and bicycle. It now seems like a big waste of wonderful space.
In the kitchen I don’t like my shadow on the art table but my eyes are drawn to the window and the islands that are now all under the blue sky. It won’t be long now, Dog-dog.
A white dot in the blue is the ferry going out, so tiny compared to whatever the ship was I saw earlier. With the sun out, for the first time I see it all the way out to the island.
The bread has mould on it, a theme for the day it seems. It’s 4 days since I bought it. I cut the green bits from my sandwich but my brain tells my taste buds what it saw. So it looks like I’ll be cycling back to the village sooner than I thought.
I finally work out exactly how long to put the immersion heater on for a 2-minute shower. And the lack of a curtain is handy for leaping out of the shower.
We go for 4 mile walk away from the mountains and out into the sunny countryside. I am wearing just a t-shirt. It’s a mistake though, for once we’re away from the cottage the wind can be felt. It is quite cold, and it is not weak. We see a dog ahead rambling. He is followed by people walking. 3 women, each with a face that has walked for many years in this wind. Rex is urged on and Dog-dog likewise. I feel self-conscious with my dog on a leash.
A point where we can see the beach is where we walk to. There isn’t time to go to the beach itself. Well there is, there just isn’t time to come back. Well there is, we’re just not that fit yet.
A woman appears behind us. She is pushing a buggy. See, even women walking alone walk in company. As I begin to ascend a steep hill the woman is a hundred metres behind us. Up I go aided by stick in one hand and dog on the other. Shortly after reaching the top the woman passes me. Outside a house ahead she stops to talk to someone and to show her the baby she gave birth to probably a couple of hours earlier. The dog and I go past, both of us thirsty, albeit for different drinks.
Ahead of us the mountains and the cottage are covered in very dark clouds. Out on the bog where we walk and all along the coast there is a deep blue sky.
Rex and the women are returning from their walk. In unison, as Rex hovers threateningly, the 3 women say “He’s not our dog”, and as he attacks Dog-dog their voices rise and they roar “Rex”, again in unison, and even I was afraid.
Half a mile up the road the woman with the baby passes us again.
-You’re making me feel unfit, I concede.
She laughs and asks me where I’m staying.
-In that cottage by the mountain, I nod a mile ahead.
-That must be lonely?
-Yes but I’m an artist and traditionally we don’t like people, is what I wanted to say to her, but instead I made a movement somewhere between a shrug and a nod.
She tells me I’ll be fit living out here, but when I say I’ll be able to keep up with her then she tells me she won’t be here that long. She may well have been walking to a hospital to give birth. As she stretches aways from us the dog is panting with her tongue hanging out. I am doing the same.
With the dog resting I cycle to the village. But just a mile away, with the cottage still in view, I pause when I see a silver camper van. It goes up my drive to my house. As I start to cycle back it turns around at my door and slowly wends its way down my drive. At my gate it stops.
I get off my bike and just watch. I am not cycling off with my dog in an unlocked porch and a camper van of strangers at my house. I wait. The van doesn’t move. I presume they are lost and looking at maps, before deciding which direction to try next, but part of me fears they are now having a 4 course meal.
After 10 minutes I start to cycle back, but the van moves, so I stop. Yes it is moving; it is going for the gap. Convinced it is no longer a threat to my dog, who I think is the dog I can hear barking even if she is a mile away, I turn around and carry on with my mission to the village.
Having been delayed half an hour, I am now likely to arrive in the village after the shop with the dog treats is closed. Will Dog-dog realise I did it for her?
Just for variety I stay on the main road for the second half of the trip. 3 cars pass me on the way to the village, and not much more coming out. We all acknowledge one another with a flick of a finger.
3 sheep are loose where a side road meets the main road. While they are preoccupied munching on the roadsise grass I don’t find it cute. I am instead filled with dread for their safety. On a bicycle I have plenty of time to see them but a car will have no chance, and if they suddenly move, well maybe everybody else is just used to sheep on the road. Part of me thinks I should shoo them up the side road away from the main road, but I realise I haven’t the first notion about sheep so I do nothing but cycle on with worry. I don’t even know if shoo is a word you use with sheep.
Once again I don’t speak in the village beyond basic greetings. I feel self-conscious, or embarassed even, and if I’m forced to admit I’m a painter, I have no photographs of paintings in my wallet to prove it. The milk is more expensive than it was from the shop which sold me the mouldy bread.
On the cycle home it is chilly. Mostly it is quite cloudy so I can’t recapture those photos I accidently deleted from my last trip to the village. But I can enjoy the views.
Under Paul Henry skies I slowly make my way home. Not because I’m unfit, but because any quicker would be too quick. I stop a few times to pick up some wood and pile it on top of my messages.
The dog is none the worse for what must have been her biggest barking bout in her new home.
Before watching the sunset I cut up some wood for the evening’s fire.
When it’s dark, for the first time I see a light on the near island. Just one, despite all the houses. And then I notice a very feint light behind the island, way behind it. I’ve no idea what size the vessel is, and slowly it moves off.
Light a fire in the room that neither I nor the dog is in. Again the dog leaps out of bed and will not return. She wants out of the cottage and into the cold night for refuge, but I spend an hour trying to persuade her of her safety inside including closing the door on the room with the big bad fire. Because it’s not raining I relent and let her out. I also let the fire out and an hour later my house dog comes back in.
I wake up sitting upright in a wooden dining chair, with my face held up by my left hand, a left hand now with pins and needles. When it returns to usefulness I climb the ladder to bed.
Read the Next Day at the cottage
Read the Previous Day at the cottage
List of all the Days at the Cottage
More from The Cottage:
• Day 1 at The Cottage
• Photos of The Cottage
• 12 Photos of Scenery Around The Cottage
• 12 Photos not all Mountains and Islands
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